


When He Said It

by Ruby_Wren



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Fluff, Gen, I Didn't Mean To Say That, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 23:26:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5720977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruby_Wren/pseuds/Ruby_Wren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair has been planning how to tell Artorra what he feels for a while now.  This is nothing like what he planned.  <br/>(I wrote this for a Saturnalia gift exchange on tumblr.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	When He Said It

 

He’d had a plan.  This wasn’t it.

In the first place, it was supposed to be romantic.  Alistair’s latest plan was for a midnight picnic, under a full moon, with a bottle of something halfway decent.  If he had the right setting, then maybe the rest of it would be a bit easier.  Maybe he could finally figure out how to say it.

Well, it was nighttime and there was moonlight, all sort of silvery and bright, filtering through the trees and shimmering along the giant spider’s nest they’d spent the better part of the night hacking away at.  They certainly weren’t supposed to be covered in cobwebs and the green, slimy spider muck that, for some reason, always smelled of cabbages.  They’d come across the massive nest when they’d been searching for a place the camp, and then of course all the spiders just  _rushed_  out to greet them.  And now was the best part of all, where they got to pile up all the dead bits together and burn them because that was the only way to make sure you’d gotten rid of everything, including the millions of little spider eggs that hadn’t been hatched yet.  They weren’t making  _that_  mistake again.

It should’ve been awful.  It was long and exhausting and now they all smelled like cabbages — seriously, what was it about cabbages that giant spiders loved so much? — and somehow it wasn’t terrible because Artorra was there.  Joking with Zevran.  Laughing that amazing, warm, wonderful laugh that seemed to well up within her and pour out like liquid gold.  Maker, he loved that laugh.  Loved how it made the long night and the fatigue and the mucking through squishy spider bits not seem to matter because she was there.  Alistair heard that laugh, and nothing else mattered besides her. 

He was going to have to say something about it.

All right, how about something like —  _You’re amazing.  You’re perfect.  I love — no, bad idea.  I really, really like everything about you, which should be impossible, but there it is.  The way you start making up loud, ridiculous curses to shout at people in the middle of a fight.  The way your brows get all scrunched up when you’re cleaning your armor.  Oh, and also when you chug your pint all in one go and then you get those adorable hiccups that don’t go away no matter how much you hold your breath.  I never, ever get tired of talking to you._

That all sounded stupid.

Alistair had been planning how exactly to say it for some time now.  A couple weeks, at least — ever since that endless, awful slog through Kinloch Hold.  He was going to say something dashing and romantic and not completely ridiculous, which all his ideas ended up being once he thought them over.

Zevran had offered to help.  Alistair was more than half seriously considering it, but he knew that was a bad idea.  Probably.

Zevran was currently gently toeing what was left of the spiders, making sure the less-than-obviously-dead ones were truly dead.  Flicking one of his blades along his fingers and over the back of his hand in an absent-minded way.  “I confess, this is the part I shall not miss, when all of this this is said and done.  That is, of course, assuming we are not all dead.”

Artorra snorted as Wynne’s voice drifted gently over from the other end of the nest.  “Your shining optimism does you credit.”

“As we have not died yet, I should say our chances of survival are slightly better than average.”  Zevran grinned.  “And let me assure you, my silver-haired goddess, that no matter what happens I shall always remember our nights together so fondly.  The soft breezes through the trees.  The silver kiss of moonlight.  The festive way our arachnid friends crackle under one’s boots.  Don’t tell me you will look back upon these halcyon days and sigh, when you are back in Orzamarr, Artorra.”

Artorra didn’t answer right away, tossing a few spider legs onto the pile they were building.  “Oh sure,” she finally said.  There was a smudge on her forehead, like she’d tried to rub something off and it hadn’t worked.  “I’ll cry my heart out every night, wishing I was here again.  With the darkspawn and the mud and the — ” she glanced up, and then quickly down again, swallowing hard “ — sky.”

“Don’t forget the terrible teryn who is hiring assassins to kill us,” Alistair tossed back, feeling his stomach flip-flop when she flashed him a grin.

“Only the very best assassins,” Zevran interjected, and Artorra laughed.  Alistair didn’t because…   _The sky_ , she’d said.  Did that mean…did she…

“So.”  Alistair cleared his throat.  Sound casual.  Suave.  “You intend to go back, then?  To Orzammar?  When this is done?”

“I — um — ”  Artorra tossed away another spider leg.  It crackled a bit when it landed on the pile.  “It would be nice, I guess.  My sister’s there.  It is, um...home,” she finally finished.

“So, um — ”  He cleared his throat again.  “ — will you miss it?  That is,” he rushed on, “all this time we’ve spent together…you know, the tragedy, the brushes with death, the constant battles with the whole Blight looming over us…will you miss it once it’s over?”

There was a half-second of confusion before her smile came back.  “Yeah.  Sure.  But, um, we’re Grey Wardens.  There’ll always be something to fight, right?”  She tossed him a wink.

“Yes.”  Alistair cleared his throat.  “But that doesn’t mean we would necessarily be fighting them together.”

“We wouldn’t?  I mean — ”  Artorra ran a hand over her hair — and then shook it hard to free the cobwebs she’d pulled off.  “I guess not.  I mean, I guess I just assumed that since we’re the only Wardens left in Ferelden, that we’d just — that you and me would — that we’d just...”  She shrugged and turned away.

“I need to talk to you.”  He didn’t plan on saying it.  He didn’t know he was going to say it until he heard it rush out.  Alistair took a deep breath.  “That is, I...could I talk to you for a moment?”

“What,  _now_?” Zevran asked, and held up a hand when Alistair shot him a look.  “Now is a perfect time.”  He sheathed his dagger with a quick twirl.  “Ah!  I have just remembered, I have something I must attend to over there,” he gestured to the trees, “where I will not be able to hear a thing.  If you would accompany me, my dear Wynne?”

“I suppose.”  Wynne clapped her hands off on her robe.  “As long as you promise not to try anything.”

“I will give you my word, as long as I do not have to mean it.”

Artorra watched them go and then glanced back at Alistair, half-laughing.  “All right.  What’s going on?”

All right.  All right, this was it.  

How about:  _I’ll never leave_  — no, that sounded creepy.

_I’ll always be there for you._   Better.  Less creepy, at least.   _Always.  Because you’ve always been there for me, and I can count on one hand the number of people who I could really truly count on.  I wouldn’t even need to use all my fingers.   You’re the most wonderful thing that happened to me and you haven’t even really happened to me yet, but I would really like it if you could, and_ …no.  That sounded terrible.  Everything sounded terrible.  And foolish.  Maker, he knew he sounded foolish on a regular basis — he took a perverse pride in it, as a matter of fact, especially seeing as how much it seemed to annoy Morrigan.  But this…  He couldn’t sound like a fool now.

Alistair took a breath.  “Artorra.”

“Yeah?”

He took another breath.  The key thing, Alistair knew, was not to say  _that word_.  The big one.  The ‘L’ word.  Not that he didn’t mean  _that word_  — because he did, he’d never meant anything more — but it was...well, it was a big word, wasn’t it?  It meant something.  It sort of put expectations on someone, whether or not you meant to.  And he didn’t mean to.  What he felt was…well, it was what he felt, and he didn’t expect — he couldn’t expect…

“Artorra.”

“Alistair.”  He could see the laughter brimming in her eyes.  He lo - no, no he didn’t.  He  _greatly enjoyed_  that.  He didn’t  _that word_  it.

Maker, there had to be a way to inform her of what he felt and without making it seem like she had to feel the same way.  It was just, he just, she — 

_Just say it.  Stop thinking about it and just say it and if it ends up alienating her and you lose the most important person in your life — again — well, then at least you’ve been honest, and that’s the most important thing, right?_   He had to fight the urge to put his hands on his knees and take several deep breaths.

“Hey, you okay?”  Artorra was looking at him, her mouth crooked in kind of a half-smile.  “You look kind of green.”

Alistair nodded in what he hoped was a casual and completely non-hyperventilating manner.  “Yes, absolutely,  I’m totally fine.”  He cleared his throat again.  He needed to stop doing that, it was starting to hurt.  “I…that is, you…that is, um…you remember, when we were at Kinloch.”  Alistair shook his head.  “Of course you do, you were there.  But the point is that we were there and — if you recall — which you will because, as you recall, we were both there — the two of us — we went into the Fade.  And there was my sister, only it wasn’t my sister, it was a demon…”  Maker, this was not going well.  “The point is — and I swear that I have one — you came after me.  I don’t think…I know I wouldn’t have gotten out of there if you hadn’t come after me.”

Artorra punched his arm.  “Of course you would have, don’t say that.”

“No, Artorra, I…”  He let out a shaky breath.  “I know it might sound strange, considering we haven’t known each other for very long, but I — I care about you.” 

She smiled.  It arrowed through him like sunlight.  “I care about you, too.” 

“No, that’s not…”  Don’t say love.  “I — ”  Don’t.  “I love you.”

The warmth drained from her face, leaving…surprise?  He hoped it was surprise.  “Oh.”

“I think maybe it’s because we’ve gone through so much together.  I don’t know.  Maybe I’m imagining it.”  Except he wasn’t.  Alistair knew he wasn’t, he knew what he felt.

“Oh.”  She still had that look on her face.  He never, never, would’ve said anything if he knew she was going to look like that.  Not bad.  Not angry.  But not happy either.  Just blank.  Then, for a moment, it faded into confusion.  “Really?”

“Yes,” Alistair said, and could have kicked himself, because everything he heard everything he felt and wanted and couldn’t say come out in that single word.

“You’re serious?”  She sounded incredulous.

“Yes.”  Alistair swallowed.  He shouldn’t have said anything.  This was a bad idea.  He’d gotten it all wrong, he’d messed it all up, but it was too late now.   He knew he sounded like an idiot.  “So you know.  And now…now we both know.”

“Yes,” she said.

“It’s not a big deal.”  He shrugged, tried to laugh it off.  It came off a little too high-pitched.  He heard a snort from somewhere off in the trees.  “I’ll stop if you want,” he added quickly.  Which was really really stupid, now that he thought of it.  I’ll stop if you want?

Her brows came together in that half-confused, half-stern line that was just…dammit, so adorable.  “Really?”

“Yeah.  Sure.”  He winced as his voice broke painfully on that last word, and cleared his throat.  “No problem,” he added, in what he hoped was a much more casual, confident,  _it’s all right, I have beautiful women that I’m hopelessly in love with turn me down everyday_ voice.  “I was just wondering, before I, um, start stopping all that, if — that is, am I?  Fooling myself?  Or…or do you think you might ever feel the same way about me?”

“I…”  Her eyes were fixed on him, wide and bright in the moonlight.  He wondered what she was thinking, looking at him like that.  He was afraid to know.  “Yes.”  It came out on barely a breath. 

“Yes?”

“Um.”  She was saying that a lot.  It couldn’t be a good sign.  “Yes.  I can.  I do.  I think.”

“Really?” he asked.  Considering how this started, this wasn’t how he expected this to turn out.

Artorra nodded, a little dazedly.

“Good.  Right.  Excellent.  Then I’ll just — ”

“Kiss me,” she said.

“What?”  His gaze immediately dropped to her mouth.  There was a small cut in the corner of her bottom lip.

“Kiss me.  Now.  I’m thinking, I don’t want to think, just — kiss me,” she said again.

He started to say, “Artorra — ” which would have been followed up by something perfectly reasonable and mature and draw attention away from the fact that he was probably staring at her like an idiot, except she muttered, “Oh, for stone’s sake,” and yanked him down to mouth level as she went up on her tip-toes — which was so adorable he barely had time to process it — and whatever else either one of them was going to say was lost.

He pulled back at some point.  Because air.  It seemed a shame to have to breathe.  “How was that?”

Her eyes were still closed, as if she was still soaking it in.  “It’ll do.”  Her voice was a soft rasp.  A smile quirked at the corner of her mouth.  “I can’t think at all,” she added, and pulled him back down.  

This wasn't how he planned it.  They were both tired and dirty covered in cobwebs and spider muck, and right now, with her, it didn't matter. She mattered, and right then she was the only thing that did.


End file.
